Big Flipping Deal Ch. 01

Donovan had given us each a door key to Mrs. P's place – now our place ...holy crapola, I've got an 'our place' with this chick? No, that's areallybad way to think about it –but while we could get in, there was a major problem with Lindsey's suggestion.

"Uh," I said, scratching the back of my head and feeling the color rise across my face.

"What?" she asked, hand on hip. "Look, I get it, you're intimidated by me. Get over it. We're going to be spending some time together on this project, but it's no big deal, and nothing's going to happen. So do you want to check the place out together or not? If you're too chicken to even do a walk-through with me, we better go back in and have Donovan unload it for us."

"No, no, it's not that," I said, embarrassment beaten down by panic at the thought of Lindsey changing her mind. "It's just – my car's out of commission right now. I rode the bus here."

Her lips pinched together in what was either a moue of pity or an attempt to hold back a judgmental smirk. With her eyes hidden behind the sunglasses, I couldn't tell which. She turned away and gestured for me to follow using a nod of her head.

"I'll drive then. Over here."

I followed her across the parking lot to her car, a little white BMW roadster with the top down.Uh, yeah, Mrs. P. I can really see your matchmaking magic here, the guy who rides the bus and the chick in the cha-ching convertible. This is totally going to work.

The walk did give me a couple of good glances at Lindsey's ass, though, round and full inside the tight white skirt of her microdress. I decided that was worth the embarrassment of admitting I had no wheels of my own at the moment.

The car chirped at the click of Lindsey's key remote, and I opened my door and slid into the tan leather interior.

"Nice car," I said, then tried not to wince at sounding so lame.

"It gets me around," she replied, settling that ass into the driver's seat and stretching those glorious legs out under the dash to the pedals.

"Well, that's one advantage it has over mine."

She laughed at that, then twisted the key in the ignition and growled the engine to life. I realized absently that she had her left foot on the clutch, which meant it was a manual transmission ... and which also meant I was still staring at her legs. Luckily, her hand had gone to the back of my headrest as she twisted to look behind us and reverse out of the spot. So there was at least a chance she hadn't noticed me gawking.

We roared out of the parking lot onto the access road of 35E South, and Lindsey clicked the stereo on, loud. Between the wind across the open top, the performance rumble of the engine, and the thumping dance beat of the music, the chances of conversation shrank to nothing, which frankly I found myself really grateful for. Less chance I'd embarrass myself.

But apparently it really had been a while since she'd been to her aunt's house, because I had to point out the exit to her and holler, "Hey, that's us!" so she wouldn't fly past it. She whipped us over a couple of lanes and braked smoothly down the ramp to the light, where she stopped and glided the gearshift into first.

Then, speaking up over the music, she asked, "What, you surprised I can drive a stick?"

I blinked and said, "No, no – I just ... well, you've got pretty hands."

Her eyebrows went together. "Really?"

"Yeah. Graceful." It was true. She had long, long fingers that made me wonder if she could play the piano. Mrs. P had been a piano teacher back in the day, I knew. She'd probably have given her nieces and nephews free lessons.

"Thanks," she said. Then she smirked and said, "Guys are usually surprised I drive a stick."

"Uh, well ... guys can be jerks," I said, not sure I sounded convincing.

"What about you?"

"Well, I don't think ... I mean ..." I felt the burn climbing my cheeks again and decided to just be honest, "... shit, I guess so. You've probably caught me looking at your legs and your boobs a couple of times already. Pretty jerky. Sorry."

"You're cute, Nick," she said, revving the engine as the light changed and going left under the highway. She made the next couple of turns without needing further directions, and got us into the neighborhood before she said anything else. Turning onto Mrs. P's street, she went on, "Look, you know nothing's going to happen between us, right?"

My heart lumped downward a couple inches and I looked out my side of the car at the houses going by. "Sure. Of course not. I mean, look at you."

"That's not what I meant," she said, and I turned back to her. We passed my place, then the Morregans', and then she zipped us into Mrs. P's driveway beneath the sycamore tree that dominated half of the property. She killed the engine and the stereo, pulled her sunglasses off and locked her lovely blue eyes on mine. "I just mean I try not to come across like I'm on the market. It doesn't have anything to do with you, or how you look, or how I look, or my car, or you riding the bus. That's just not where my head is right now – relationships. I'm usually pretty good at getting the vibe across. I just want to make that clear before I say this next thing."

"Okay, sure." I shrugged. "Good to know it's not just me, I guess. So what's the next thing?"

She smiled, a little lop-sided, and her eyes flicked down to my crotch for just an instant. "You're obviously nervous as fuck, and you've had a massive boner the whole time we've been in the car. So if it'll help calm you down, and you understand it's a one-time offer, I'm totally willing to blow you. Right here, right now, quick and dirty, and then we can get on with this house shit."

I could only gape at her for a second.Boner? I don't have a ...But I totally did, a cast-iron erection that was almost painful now that she'd pointed it out.She can't be serious though ...

My head jerked around to the street behind us. Mrs. P's place has a detached garage set back behind the house, and a thick row of shrubbery between it and the adjacent property. So we sat with the house to our left, the garage in front, and the shrubs to the right. Only someone right behind us would be able to see, and the house on the far side of the street had been empty and for sale since August.

"Here? In the car? It's broad daylight ..."

She shrugged, then lowered and raised her eyelids in a deliberately casual blink.

"One-time offer. Yes or no?"

I looked around again.Holy fuck. Maybe it's some kind of test. Am I a pig who'll take any chance for a blow-job? Or does she want a guy with the balls to live dangerously?

The only thing I could be completely sure of was that if I said no, I'd be burning with cowardly embarrassment the whole walk through the house and would go to bed tonight kicking myself for chickening out.

"Okay, what the hell," I said, undoing my seatbelt and then the buckle of my actual belt.

Lindsey grinned and rubbed her hands together. "All right, so youdohave some backbone."

I got everything undone and pushed just far enough down for my cock to spring out at attention, the tip already glistening with precum. She got hold of it and worked her wrist a little, one eyebrow up and the twist on her mouth wry.

"Not a bad handful. Now, once I get going, don't hold back or try to last. Seems quiet around here for the moment, but sooner or later someone's going to come by walking their dog."

"Okay," I said, trying to play it cool like I'd have any choice in the matter. The way my hard-on felt in her hand, it was almost a wonder I hadn't come already. "If you say –"

She turned, twisted, bent, and engulfed me with those amazing ruby lips.

"Oh, shit!" I said, then clapped a hand over my mouth. How loud had that burst out? Lindsey laughed around my cock, sucked her cheeks in, and descended all the way to my root, making me groan. "Jesus Christ ..."

"Mmmm," she murmured, vibrating my dick with the sound. Her tongue curled and glided around me within the plush, wet trap of her mouth. I could feel the pressure building in my balls before she even bobbed her head.

And then she bobbed her head.

"Ohmygod," I gurgled. It was like life had decided to educate me on what a blow-job really was – her cheeks sucked in tight along the top and bottom of my shaft, her tongue working lavishly around practically the whole circumference, and all of it gliding up and down, slowly for a trip or two, then faster, and faster, and faster. "Lindsey ... oh god, that's so ..."

One hand reached up to put a finger to my lips as she worked. Then it descended to shift her glorious golden hair behind her right ear and across to the far side of her neck, giving me a full view of her carmine lips sealed around my erection, the hollows of her vacuum-tight cheeks, the taut muscles in her neck, her squeezed-shut eyes with their eyebrows low and fierce in concentration, and most amazingly of all, the glistening wet length of my cock disappearing and reappearing in fast, sweeping strokes as her beautiful face plied me with pure oral genius.

I squeaked and bit my lip to keep from saying anything else. My pulse roared in my ears almost as loud as the sweet, liquid noise Lindsey's mouth made around my dick. "Hhhhhh– ahh –aahhh..."

The smell of my crotch and her saliva and the leather seats of the car and the woody overhanging sycamore scent churned together in my head while pleasure sucked and licked and nibbled its way up and down my penis. Lindsey's breathing had turned fast and rough, like an athlete starting a hard sprint for the finish line. She must have been able to feel my cock swelling in preparation for orgasm, because she dialed it up instead of slacking off. The hot, hormonal machinery of my groin responded instantly, and when it did, she seized me hard with the vice-like ring of her mouth and rammed all the way down, rolling her neck to put some crazy, 720-degree spin on my cock, never for a second letting up with the writhing movements of her tongue.

"Shit, Lindsey, oh my god,shit!"

My hands clawed at the sides of my bucket seat, my head smacked back against the headrest, something green and dancing whirled across my vision like a kaleidoscope – the canopy of the sycamore tree if I'd had the brain-power to figure it out at that second – and up and out of me burst a flood of cum that felt strong enough to put an eye out if I'd been facialing her. Lindsey's mouth pulled seemingly endless blurting waves of pleasure out of me, her throat working to swallow what felt like a liter or two of semen.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," I gasped. The orgasm just wouldn't stop, and Mrs' P's niece wouldn't stop either. Her lips massaged my root. Her tongue coaxed more and more expulsions from me with its lashing trips along the underside of my shaft. Her neck kept working, rotating her head with my cock as deep down her throat as it would go. "UUHHhhnnggg..."

Finally, when I had groaned my way almost unconscious, the throbbing ecstasy subsided and Lindsey withdrew her face very slowly from my crotch. I just sat there panting with my eyes shut until a squeeze of her fingers into my thigh brought me around.

"Settled down enough to do this house thing, then?" she asked, wiping at her lower lip with one finger and then hooking her thumb over her shoulder toward Mrs. P's front door.

"Uh," I said dazedly. "Sure."

* * *

It felt weird walking up Mrs. Pinobscott's front steps with someone else – and it would have felt weird even if that someone else hadn't just given me a public-exposure blow job just an hour after I'd met her.

It also felt weird watching that someone put a key in the door and open it.

And it felt weird knowing Mrs. P's voice wasn't going to greet me as I came in, and wasn't ever going to greet me under any circumstances again.

Lindsey walked through into the foyer, where a little half-wall separated the front hall from the living room. Setting her handbag and keys down on the half-wall, she stepped into the large empty space where her aunt's sofa and armchair used to sit facing glass-walled hutches full of china.

"The carpet's for shit," she said, picking at it with one needle-like boot heel. "Definitely have to tear all that out."

I nodded. If there was a single square inch of the house that hadn't been on the receiving end of a Mister Whiskerdoodle hairball, I'd be surprised. And although I always tried to clean the worst of the stuff up when I came over to clean the catbox and let Mrs. P ramble at me, he'd been hacking the grisly stuff up for years before I moved in two houses down.

With the furniture gone, the whole place felt hollow. I didn't follow Lindsey into the blank, empty space of the living room where she examined the baseboards. It didn't seem right that the old lady's couch wasn't there, with its doilies on the back cushions and her knitting basket next to it gathering dust because of her arthritis. I stepped farther down the hall, which seemed safer. But when I clicked on the hall light, I found that the paint showed a menagerie of mismatched bright rectangles where the collection of family photographs once hung.

Damn, they even carried off that one of her from the fifties when she was smoking hot.I would have liked to keep that picture, of the sassy-looking young woman I'd never known but who'd somehow turned into a sweet, shriveled senior citizen whose back and knees and walker wouldn't let her get down to scoop the crap out of her cat's litterbox. It made me wish I'd been a little higher priority and been given the opportunity to go through the house with the rest of Mrs. P's heirs.Of course, then I wouldn't have gotten the blow-job of my life ...

As I looked away from the blank spot that had once held my neighbor's beautiful, youthful black-and-white, though I spotted one frame still hanging low on the wall just past the door of the guest bedroom. Thinking I might take consolation in a shot of Mrs. P during her cougar years, I walked over and lifted it from its hook. It was the one of her and that little tow-headed elementary-school kid, an amateur photo probably taken by a family member circa the late 1980s, with Mrs. P all wrinkles and granny-glasses, glare off the lenses hiding her eyes. But she had that smile on, the one that had stayed lively and encouraging even after the lips that formed it had thinned to almost nothing.

Without warning, I found Lindsey standing beside me, and I flinched and held up the photo reflexively, trying not to look like I'd been trawling for her dead aunt's former hotness.

"Uh, they left one, whoever took down all the pictures." I held the frame out for her to take, like that had been my plan all along. "I guess this was a neighbor kid or one of her piano students or something." Mrs. P had given piano lessons for several years after she retired from teaching school, before she retired for good and gave the piano to her sister.

Lindsey peered blankly down at the photo and let out a little breath through her nose. "Yeah. That crew would definitely have taken it if it was anybody they knew or cared about."

"You going to keep it, since it's the last one?" It wasn't even a very good picture, but suddenly I wanted her to say no, so I'd have something to remember my neighbor by. Something other than her puking cat, that is.

She shrugged, though, and said, "Sure, why not. Here, put it by my bag for me, would you? I'm going to use the can. Hopefully another thing they left was the toilet paper."

I took the picture and headed back where she'd left her things, while she went a door farther down the hall into the guest bathroom.

Well that sucks,I thought. But looking at the picture a little longer, I realized it really didn't. It was a crappy picture.Imagine how you'd feel if they'd left behind that drool-icious fifties photo and then she said, "Sure, why not," and walked off with it like it was nothing.

After a few minutes thinking about Mrs. P and staring at the carpet on which Mister Whiskerdoodle had coughed up enough hairballs to build a dozen more cats, I glanced down the hall, past the still-shut bathroom door, to where the kitchen opened up at the far end of the house, reminding me that there had been more pictures hanging beside the refrigerator.

Maybe there's a good one there,I thought, walking that direction.Of course, if it's a good one, Lindsey will probably want it too. Or maybe she'll take it instead and I can have the shitty eighties one.

As I came abreast of the bathroom, though, my ear caught something that cut off my stupid photograph hunt: a little half-choking, half-coughing sound. The sound someone makes when they're crying and trying not to let anybody hear.

And once again, you asshole, Nick, herauntis dead, not just some old lady she sort of liked to help out.I felt like a total prick for begrudging her a lousy old photo. Especially since my actual prick was still in that spent, sated state from the orgasm she'd sucked out of it.

So instead of scrounging in the kitchen for a picture that probably wasn't there anyway, I backtracked quietly to the foyer and waited.

And waited.

Fuck, she must really be crying her eyes out.

Eventually, I got genuinely worried and went back down the hall, where I hovered, and hesitated, and finally said, "Hey, Lindsey, are you –" right when she opened the door and came out. Her eyes looked a little red and puffy, but either she'd reapplied her makeup, or she was wearing some waterproof, run-proof stuff. I guessed it was the latter, since her handbag was still on the half-wall by the foyer.

"Look, Nick," she said, a little hoarsely, "I'm sorry ..."

"Jesus, Lindsey, you don't have to apologize for crying a little, that's –"

"No," she said firmly, locking her bloodshot blue eyes on mine, "I'm sorry I gave you that blow-job. I'm a mess – it was completely the wrong thing to do."

"Uh ... well, damn ... I mean ... I thought it was kind of awesome."

"Yeah, I'm the queen of giving head," she said – bitter, not proud. "But you're a guy, and no matter how much a girl tells a guy, 'This doesn't mean anything,' if she blows him, he thinks it means something. And trust me, you don't want to think it means anything. You don't want to have anything to do with me in that area, I promise you. I just didn't expect – the letter, the one Neena wrote me –" She started to choke up again, then struggled through it and went on. "Anyway, I could see you were intimidated by me, and sucking a guy off is a power trip, right? So I was a shit and I used you to make myself feel like I was in control when I should have just let it out and cried. So I'm sorry, okay?"

She had tears rolling down her cheeks by the end of it, and I really just wanted to give her a big hug – a one-person-hugging-another-person hug, not anything sexual. But everything about her posture and everything she'd just said told me I probably shouldn't.

So I shrugged instead and said, "Yeah, fine. Don't worry about it."

Her eyes closed, and she took a couple of deep breaths. I couldn't help thinking how fucking beautiful she was. When her lids opened back up again, that beautiful face held something awkward or embarrassed ... or grateful. Or all three.

Which made something come over me, and with a mock scowl, I pointed a finger at her and said, "Just don't let it happen again, all right?"

She laughed and nodded and sniffled and rubbed her nose.

And then we kept looking through the house.

* * *

At home, my first step was to get a beer out of the fridge and drink half of it. My second step was to look around and make sure Mister Whiskerdoodle hadn't died on me or coughed a hairball onto anything important. I found him in the bedroom, curled up right in the middle of my spot on the bed. It didn't look like the comforter had any puke stains on it, so that at least was good. He lifted his frazzled white head a centimeter or two and gave that gargling little meow, then went back to his rough schedule of being a cat.